Epiphanies
by UnknownWriterPerson
Summary: In which I attempt to explore the different perspective of a blonde beauty and a cowboy (or I write drabbles of nonsense arranging from fluff to angst).
1. Gold Under the Covers

She laid in bed, shivering inside the covers. Her eyes were shut tight and her knuckles and jaws were clenched. She was buried as deep as she could get into her bed. Her knees were pressed against her chest and her face rested on them.

She couldn't stop shaking. It was just too petrifying. Everything in the room around her was rumbling. Machiavelli's anatomy of the art of war even fell flat on the floor, making her cry harder. Her mom was still at work and she just wanted her to come quickly. Sometimes she wished that her mom had no job. Just sometimes.

She felt helpless.

She reminences on the times when she was younger and she would do the exact same thing. Except her mom was by her side and calmed her down. She helped Maya through the storm.

She remembered how she found the lightning to be so bright that she thought the world was on fire. Her mother pretended that they were in Alaska looking for gold. She said the lightning was the Northern Lights. The Aurora Borealis. There was gold under the covers and she thought there was nothing more amazing than that.

But now she sees no gold. There are no Northern Lights. There is no magic. There is just a layer of blankets, lightning flashes, and thunderstorms. She couldn't make anything out of that like her mother did. She can't do anything to stop the bad in the world.

All she can do is cry.

She heard a faint knock on her window, a voice calling out to her. She wondered if it was her time. "God, oh God, please not yet," she prayed, her hands folded together, "I'll be a good girl, I promise! I'm only seventeen!"

She heard the knock again and she finally got up. She took a few steps closer, closing her eyes as she slid on her back against the wall. There was so much rain, but not too much to not recognize the face out the window.

Lucas.

She hurriedly opened it, giving out a hand to help him in. She shut the window closed behind him as he tumbled into her room, leaving wet marks on her carpet. Her eyes dilated and she gaped with such a livid feeling. She can no longer hear the lightning that still remained outside. All she can hear was the beating of her heart. Everything always seemed to fade out around her when she was with him. When he was finally up, he let out a soft, "hi."

"Lucas! What the hell are you doing?!" She chided, her breathing gradually slowing down then rising up again as if her heart was being attacked by a constant battalion. "It's raining hell outside and you came here to say 'hi'?!" She put a hand to her chest, making sure that her heartbeat is not too fast unless she wanted to have a heart attack.

"Of course not. I just—" He stopped himself and stared at her. He looked at her baby blue eyes, a sudden warmth spreading throughout his body. She started feeling the same. Goosebumps rise on her arms and legs, Maya rubbing it subtly and praying that it would go away.

"What?" He shook his head absentmindedly, a force tugging on his lip. He managed a little smirk on one end which made the blonde blush even more, "Stop staring at me like that. You're making me uncomfortable."

He chuckled, "Yeah, I'm sorry. You just look...cute when you're mad." Maya sucked in her lip and bit hard on it. She was a bit nervous. She might've forgotten what was happening around her and jumped at the sound of lightning.

"That's what I came here for. Now, go on." He gestured to her bed she hurriedly climbed back in and buried herself in the covers. And, no matter how hot she was, she wouldn't take it off. He climbed in with her nonchalantly, as if it were a casual thing to climb in bed with a girl and just be friends. Why should it be weird? Just because a boy and girl do that doesn't mean they are more than just platonic. Well, at least that's what Maya thinks.

While she laid in bed, he just sat up and allowed her to rest her head on his lap. He combed through her hair with his fingers and held her gently. He was tense with her right on him, though she pretended she couldn't feel his uneasiness.

"Thanks, Lucas," she repositioned herself in his lap, making her face look directly up at him, "But, you didn't need to. I mean, look. You got all wet just to keep me calm during a thunderstorm. You can stay here if you want, you know. It's still raining really hard, and I don't want you to get sick. Plus, my mom won't mind it."

"Thank you for the offer. I'll take it. And, don't look at this as an act of chivalry or pity. Just—just know that I'll always be there for you. That even when you feel you have no one to look to, you can come to me." She smiled. She always felt cared for and loved when she was with him.

"You're such a Huckleberry."

"I'm your Huckleberry."

"I'm your Shortstack," she tipped an imaginary hat in mock of him, "and I'll be here all week."


	2. Home Is Where the Hart Is

The pink incandescence kissed the pale bed of grains and a green field of grass. The soft zephyr blew upon quaint faces of euphoria and exuberance. Among the faces of youth was a girl with hair brighter than the sun, eyes bluer than the seven seas, and lips softer than a field of clouds. Even if the air around her is thick and tense and even when she's feeling tedious, her eyes always seem to shed a mere glow that seemed to last forever.

The little girl picked a daisy out of the field, sat on a nearby bench, and whispered, "I feel ya. You're alone like I am, aren't you? You're also a little gray on the sides. It's all right. I'll accept you just the way you are..."

"Why are you talking to a flower?"

"Wha—?"

"Cute. It's okay. I won't judge you."

"I don't have any friends, either. I—wait! Oops. I didn't mean to say it like that! I mean, like, you know, I didn't want to sound like you were alone—" He cupped her cheeks and squeezed them, laughing at how cute she was.

"You talk a lot. I don't get anything you said, lady. But I like you. I'm Austin, Texas from Lucas Friar." The blonde tilted her head, her blue eyes pooling with confusion. "Oops. Sorry, I get the whole, um, I forgot the word mama said, uh, something interdu—nope. I get everything mixed up."

"It's all right."

"Anyway, I'm Lucas Friar from Austin, Texas. How are you doing ma'am?"

"You're weird."

"And you're short."

"I'm the same height as you."

"But I imagine you being at least seven foots shorter than me."

"Seven foots? Your foots aren't that big! I don't get what you're saying. You're such a—a, um, a Huckleberry!"

"What's a Hucklebehwee?"

"You're dumb for a Cowboy."

"And you're dumb for a pretty girl."

"Wha?"

"I'm not a 'cowboy.' I'm just a four-year old boy who lived in Austin, Texas. And my ma thinks I'm a smart, handsome boy."

"That's what she thinks, cowboy." She winked and tilted an imaginary hat, teasing the little boy as he turned to roses. He pouted and furrowed his brows, feigning vexation for her sake (well, not really. Only sorta. She hurt him a bit).

"Aww, I'm sorry, Huckleberry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just messin'." She looked like she was serious, going closer to him and hugging him. He blushed furiously, but returned the hug instantly.

"It's okay..."

"Good because I want to be your friend. I'm Maya Hart from Gwenich Village." She said with her toddler gibberish, displaying a genuine smile, holding out a quaint hand for him to shake. His brows drew in confusion, but he shrugged it off. It was a friendly gesture and he accepted.

"I have no idea what you said, but I'll be your friend anyway, Maya."

"Great."

"Wanna come with me? My mama's making lunch!"

She nodded and after that day she felt like she can finally call New York home.


	3. Two Words

**A/N: This one shot is set in Maya's Point of View (2nd Person). Angst...**

* * *

It's early in the morning, the peak of dawn still stretching over the horizon, meeting your face and kissing your neck with a pink incandescence. You had sat down on the bench in which you usually found yourself curled up on with a book. You got out a pencil and your private journal filled with poems and stories that expressed your emotions. You were about to press the point of your writing utensil against the paper before you heard a soft whisper nearby. You had looked only to find your friend sitting in pure loneliness and tranquility.

"What are you doing here?" You ask, pushing aside your journal. You had made it a point—a promise to yourself and secretly to everyone else—that you'd put everyone's happiness over your own. You thought that every single person that still stood in the world were more worthy of happiness than you would ever be.

Your friend just sat there absentmindedly, looking down at his fingers and playing with them. He held each of them by the tip with his index and thumb. He finally looked up and gathered the courage to speak, "I like to come early and just think."

You had stared, somehow being able to predict those exact same words passing his lips. You sensed a bit of déjà vu and nostalgia, "How come I haven't seen you come early before?"

The boy before you pondered for a second, "I don't know. I guess we just haven't met at the same time or place until now."

"How are you?" The boy asks before the silence could linger any longer. You had responded easily, "I'm fine," you gathered, feeling a bit of cynical pessimism and sarcasm as you spewed your words, continuing, "I suppose. And you, Lucas?"

It takes a moment for the individual before you to figure out how to say how he actually is without feeling conceited or dragging you into his problems. There's a short, silent pause before the boy replies with "...I'm fine."

And you soon learn that whenever someone utters the two words with pursed lips and a long look that stretches from the sun and back to Earth, it is fake. It's only the wall they put up and strung with stars and moons just to satisfy you.


	4. Art Is Another Narrative

Maya had frequently kept to herself, to reasons no one was sure of. In those moments of tranquility, she would often pick up a paintbrush and illustrate her emotions on the blank canvas in front of her. The hues of pinks, blues, and whites—a mixture of colors that laced through each other perfectly and easily—had made images as they lay upon the white sheet.

Oftentimes, she'd leave the art room—an 'oasis' that kept her away from reality—with a sharp scent of paint fumes dancing through the air like that of smoke. Maybe sometimes she'd supply her art with poems, capturing the beauty of the world while explaining the ethereal scenery of it. She was a writer, a singer, an actor, a poet, a painter: an artist. She loved everything about the arts.

She believed every word, every note, every expression, every stanza, and every stroke was utterly breathtaking to experience and it was a phenomenal one. She had also believed that everyone was an artist. That everyone was unique and special because they all had a story to tell. That's why she loved art passionately.

She had her own story.

Maya was a broken blonde with a beauty no one else had. She obtained a heart of gold and had always claimed hope was for suckers. For once, she had believed otherwise. For once, she had thought that maybe she would be able to live happily. For once, she had thought that maybe she can be a little less selfless. For once, she thought that maybe life would give her break. But, of course there's no such thing as a happy ending and all her ideals would be struck away from her as if she were a slave to life and succumbed to her surroundings.

A girl could only hope for what would be believed to come true.

"Maya?"

The aforementioned blonde had peaked over to the open door, finding a familiar face to match the beckon. She had stayed quiet for a moment, hesitating on the choice of speaking or letting the silence linger. She went with the latter, hoping that he would read the blatant sign she was showing to him metaphorically. Of course the stupid Huckleberry stayed either to accompany her or to spite her.

She just kept on stroking at the canvas, huffing a sigh.

But, of course she couldn't complain. He was only trying to help her feel better, even if he was—and knew he was—the source of her problems. He had consumed all of her thoughts and it was like he cohldn't give her a break. But, she unabashedly enjoyed it, and if she admitted how exuberant she felt inside, he would only grow farther away from her.

There it is. A girl couple only hope.


End file.
